


we pull the bodies out of the lake

by phantomvape



Series: the tim vapes au [1]
Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ghosts, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, and also vaping, i guess, post-season 3 finale, this is about grief
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-01
Updated: 2020-04-01
Packaged: 2021-02-28 16:55:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23420551
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/phantomvape/pseuds/phantomvape
Summary: Martin props his chin in his hand, “So ghosts still have nicotine addictions, do they?”“Fuck you,” Tim snaps, “I’ll haunt the shit out of you.”
Relationships: Martin Blackwood & Tim Stoker, Martin Blackwood/Tim Stoker
Series: the tim vapes au [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1684714
Comments: 20
Kudos: 143





	we pull the bodies out of the lake

**Author's Note:**

> title is from Richard Siken's poem "Scheherazade".

Some of the shelves shake when Melanie slams the door, leaving Martin to stare after her. Part of him feels a bit bad, but he can’t really help it. Talking to people has just started to make him… _uncomfortable_. He’s always been weird about talking, he doesn’t really like it much to begin with, but now every conversation feels like pulling teeth. 

Besides, he’s not a child. He doesn’t need everyone coming by to check in on him. 

“That wasn’t very nice.” 

Martin startles, but just as soon slumps back into his seat, “Oh, like it even matters.”

It doesn’t matter, really. At this point he’d prefer if everyone silently glowered at him like Basira than try and patronize him. Martin pulls a stack of papers closer and shuffles them, if only so that he doesn’t have to look up. 

That earns him a scoff, “Guess it wouldn’t, now that you’re sucking Lukas’s dick.” 

“ _Jesus_ , Tim!” Martin sputters. He manages to keep his gaze on his papers, though they crinkle as he tightens his grip. “That is _not_ what’s happening. You know that’s not what's happening.” 

Tim sighs. Martin doesn’t have to look; he can imagine Tim leaning against one of the filing cabinets. He’s just as artfully rumpled in death as he was in life, with his hair carefully tousled and his shirt wrinkled just right. 

_Debauched_ , Tim had teased once, when Sasha had told him to invest in a comb, _I’m ruggedly handsome._

“Then tell me,” Tim steps closer, Martin can hear the floor creak, “do _you_ know what’s happening? Really? What the fuck is going on, Martin?” 

Martin stacks the papers in his hands, then spreads them back out again. Somedays this deal with Lukas feels like the right thing to do. Sometimes it feels like he’s making a terrible mistake. He stacks the papers. He does not answer Tim. 

“Yeah, that’s what I thought,” Tim sounds impossibly tired. Those last few months before his death, he always sounded tired. It was just hidden under all of the anger and hurt. Sometimes, Martin would catch him in the break room, just staring into space and looking so, so _tired._

This is not the first time Tim has appeared. This is not the first time Martin has seen Tim, or whatever looks like Tim. He doesn’t know what’s happening. He doesn’t know if this is a hallucination, or the Distortion, or some sick game being played by one of the Entities. Hell, it could even be some sick game being played by Peter. 

But this thing looks like Tim and talks like Tim and is so exactly like Tim. And Martin- 

Martin misses Tim. He really, really does. 

So no, this is not the first time Martin has talked to Tim.

“I just need everyone to trust me. I- I know what I’m doing,” Martin mutters. He tries to smooth out the wrinkles in his papers. 

Tim huffs, nearly a laugh. “Well, I’m sure everyone would trust you more if you stopped getting a tone with them.” 

“I don’t get a _tone!_ ” Martin can’t help but whip his head up to scowl at Tim, who only laughs harder. He’s almost… faded in a way, like he’s made of mist. But the smile is real, the laugh is real. 

It hurts, somewhere between Martin’s ribs. He looks away again. 

For a moment there’s only silence, then a familiar click and a sharp inhale. Martin sits up so fast his neck cracks. “Are you- are you fucking _vaping?_ ” 

In Tim’s hand, which was absolutely empty a moment before, is the hot pink vape he usually hid in his desk. It looks muted and dull in the same way Tim does. The mere thought of a phantom vape makes Martin want to curl up on the floor for a long, long time. 

“What’s it to you?” Tim’s words are followed by a cloud that smells faintly of banana candy. If he were real, it would be stronger. That smell used to linger everywhere in the Archives. Martin didn’t even know he’d missed it. 

He does now, though. He misses it with a ferocity that nearly doubles him over. He wants to tell Tim that. He wants to say _god Tim, god I’ve missed you._ He doesn’t even care if this isn’t really Tim, its close enough. Anything is close enough. 

Martin props his chin in his hand, “So ghosts still have nicotine addictions, do they?” 

“Fuck you,” Tim snaps, “I’ll haunt the shit out of you.” 

A small smile cracks over Martin’s face. It feels so foreign after all these months of dull, pulsing apathy. “You’re already haunting me.” 

“I’ll show you haunting,” Tim makes a pointed gesture with his vape mod, “You’ll never find a pen again, you straight edge bitch.” His voice is filled with a ridiculous amount of venom. 

Martin can’t help it, he cracks up. Hiccuping laughter spills out of him. He slaps a hand over his mouth, laughing so hard his stomach hurts. It’s so perfectly Tim. The one who worked alongside Martin, and ate PopTarts for lunch, and took everyone out for drinks on Fridays. The one who took Martin home sometimes, just for fun. Who laid with him on the couch to watch crap television. The Tim Stoker who existed before this, before Eyes and Webs and even bloody worms. 

And then, as suddenly as the laughing started, Martin is crying. Not hard, not sobbing, just hot tears slipping down his cheeks. He keeps his hand pressed over his mouth, trying to muffle the pathetic little noises that come with each exhale. 

A cold hand touches the back of his neck, faint but there. Tim runs his fingers through the hair at the nape of Martin’s neck, something he did when Martin would cook them both breakfast in Tim’s flat. Something he did just for Martin. 

Martin knows that this is not Tim, could not possibly be Tim. But Martin has seen so much of the impossible lately, so he reaches out and holds on to this. 

He holds on to Tim, and Tim holds him back.

**Author's Note:**

> i am thinking about him*
> 
> *tim stoker


End file.
